


Write me a love song

by scarletstring



Category: Red Velvet (K-pop Band)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, with a sprinkle of feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-24 14:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8375809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletstring/pseuds/scarletstring
Summary: Wendy takes up a job offer to play as a makeshift friend. She expects her client to be a child or the elderly, but certainly not the pretty young lady who's been her muse the moment she saw her smile like it was a secret.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a conversation between lolabaechu and maomaosforehead, plus sadisticpotato over on twitter; I chose to write it out.

Wendy prides herself in writing songs, but lately, she hasn’t been able to.

 

Maybe the stress of paying for school has eaten all of her inspiration away, leaving her empty and without color that she’s so used to seeing on the pages of her notebook.

 

She's been wondering when the words would come back to scribble lyrics down on paper again.

 

She just didn't think it'd come with her face crashing against the sidewalk.

 

Wendy doesn't mean to catch someone's pretty smile from the corner of her eyes with two left feet and a face kissing concrete – but she just does, and wow; it _hurts._

 

“…Ow.”

 

Her mouth is attached to the floor.

 

How gross.

 

Once it registers that _yes,_ she's still lying down on cold cracked pavement and _yes,_ her nose feels bent and likely broken, Wendy wishes the sidewalk would swallow her whole.

 

She wouldn't mind being friends with gravel if it lets her hide away from curious burning stares and a little girl whispering _not-so-quietly_ about her dilemma.

 

"Mommy, why doesn't she know how to walk yet?"

 

But just like everything else she wishes in life, it doesn't happen, so Wendy stays there, hoping her embarrassment seeps out from her face of pink to fill in the gaps in concrete.

 

At least she’s secured against the floor; she wouldn't want to catch that certain lady's pretty eyes – not like _this,_ anyway.

 

Clack.

 

Clack.

 

Clack.

 

Wendy groans when she attempts to turn her head, vaguely registering the clicking of heels, hoping her nose would stop hurting soon.

 

"Are you...planning to get up anytime soon?"

 

Wendy thinks it's an angel talking – it certainly sounds like it from its sultry tone, innocently silky (then again it's not like she'd know what an angel sounds like – she figures this was close enough though).

 

It'd actually be wonderful if it belonged to that someone with a smile for a secret, but Wendy remembers she'd been on the other side of the street, helping an elderly woman with her grocery bags.

 

"Yeah I am. Just, wallowing in my embarrassment."

 

Wendy loves that her voice is muffled against cold cement – _dirty,_ yes, but it adds authenticity to the fact that she'd just like to disappear.

 

Quickly.

 

"Okay...well, just returning this to you." Wendy shifts at the sound of rustling paper, blearily blinking at the item sliding next to her face. Right, the job ad. "You dropped it when you fell."

 

Wendy's about to thank the stranger with an angel's voice when her throat clams up at the sight of familiar medium length ebony hair, blue dress shirt, and black pencil skirt.

 

Her clacking white high heels play in rhythm to Wendy's growing realization when she's crossing the street again, going back to the elderly woman stalling beside the bus stop.

 

...She crossed the street for her?

 

_Oh. My. God, it really was—_

Wendy only digs her face back into concrete, ashamed for having had her first conversation with her muse like _this._

How embarrassing.

 

Once Wendy's sure she's squeezed out every bit of humiliation from her skin and into hard pavement (she doesn't feel the heat against her face anymore), she's dusting patches of debris off her hoodie and pants, cradling the paper with careful hands and wishing she'd been brave enough to look up earlier than regretting for a moment too late.

 

She combs fingers through her hair, hoping she doesn't look like much of a wreck and stares at the address one more time across crumpled paper.

 

Gripping the handle of her small luggage and readjusting the straps on her backpack, Wendy takes steps again towards the mark on her page, all the while making sure she's tucked away the image memory of a muse embodying beauty.

 

With a smile like that of a secret – _sharp and jagged, like broken glass,_ Wendy thinks, it shouldn't have been a surprise to Wendy that she'd have heaven for a voice too.

 

-

 

"Thank you, come again!"

 

Wendy leaves with a waving hand for a goodbye before dragging her feet out of the café, her tired legs making trek towards the home that's printed on beaten paper.

 

She didn't think the travel would be this far – the lady on the email made it sound closer than it really was, but at least she managed to get some rest and a good warm cup of hot coffee to rejuvenate.

 

Wendy considers taking a cab, but with the little pocket money she has, she's not sure she'd risk paying for a fare way above her budget – some taxi drivers love to twist the price higher than it should be.

 

"Ow!"

 

She hisses at a tree branch that has her feet stumbling and a scratch on her leg for remembrance. Wendy scowls at the little slip of red oozing out of the tiny gash, wiping it off with tired hands before tugging her luggage to roll its wheels over bundles of twigs.

 

Whoever chose to live out here with nature should've at least cleared up the pathway – the road could use a little less tree leftovers; who would want people to walk through branches so clustered it looked like mother nature's pubic hair?

 

Wendy snorts to herself, yanking out her journal to jot down the brief moment of wit she had just conjured up – though pubic hair might not be entirely appropriate for song lyrics.

 

She continues to write what her eyes can see, detailing landscapes of August green, tall trees looming over her head to arch like they're forest gates out of a fairytale.

 

Despite the not-so-kind branches that litter along the narrow trail of rocks and gravel, Wendy can appreciate the authentic texture of all-that-is nature.

 

Whistling birds definitely help bring atmosphere to sunlight beaming broken streams against clusters of green leaves. Her notebook will be filled with nature's beauty at this rate.

 

Wendy's about to scribble down a verse that compares a forest's mute ambience to that stranger's key-locked smile when her foot bumps against cement.

 

"Ow! _Seriously?!_ "

 

Wendy curses at her luck, hopping on one leg to satiate the pain before finally realizing that the culprit with cement for its body was a fountain in the middle of an open garden (Wendy can't bring herself to close her mouth – it was simply amazing to look at).

 

Only one thing comes to mind at this point: these people were loaded. No wonder they could afford paying for her lodging and food and basic necessities for a living. All she'd need to save up on was her tuition for the next school year.

 

Once she manages pick up her jaw from the tiny creases of clean cut grass (Wendy finds it unfathomable to have even the lawn manicured to perfection – the size is _huge_ ), she shoves her journal back into her backpack before tugging her luggage along.

 

Pristine white marble steps (and even a spiral staircase – was that a mini waterfall by the side door entrance?) guide up towards the main double doors, cobblestone pathways connecting to a fork that undoubtedly leads to other sectors of the mansion; Wendy can't help but take her time drinking it all in.

 

She was going to be staying _here?_

 

The thought gets her excited, nervous, and anxious, all at once. She just hopes the owner is as kind as the lady in the email (perhaps she was a maid or some sort of secretary; or maybe even the owner herself).

 

Pausing at the large entrance, Wendy can't help but glide curious fingers along the golden strips that design the doors. Even the handles are gold.

 

Her eyes trail the slopes of burnished wood, admiring the soft smooth texture of mastered carpentry, before stumbling on a piece of paper taped over a lion's head (Wendy didn't think those things even existed – she has only ever seen them in movies).

_If you're the weirdo who accepted this weird job offer, knock three times. If you're a stranger who's going to do what's instructed out of fun, I suggest you skedaddle. So scram._

— _J_

 

Wendy can only bring herself to blink at the block of text printed, relieved that she was certainly not under the second category before knocking as told.

 

_Here goes._

 

-

 

Frankly, Wendy never believed in fate.

 

At best, the world revolved around coincidences.

 

But when Wendy tries not to let her jaw fall to the floor at the sight of the pretty lady who has been her _muse_ for less than twenty-four hours, she fails, feeling the woman push her chin up, her teeth clicking shut.

 

Even when her touch disappears and the moment had only lasted for a second, Wendy could still feel her heat mar her skin.

 

Wendy is suddenly very, _very_ excited and very, _very_ embarrassed.

 

"You're either the weirdo who accepted the job offer, or a problem who should start running. So, which one are you?"

 

Wendy gulps at the woman's hard scrutiny, pretending not to see the enormous stiletto in one of her hands.

 

"T-The first one,"

 

She watches the woman stare at her a little longer, squinting careful eyes before dropping the stiletto by her feet to slip it back on.

 

"...That's too bad," the lady says, tapping her heel as if to adjust its fit. "It'd be great to finally throw these out. I want a different pair."

 

Wendy's startled at how shiny they look – and how _new_ ; this lady must be loaded (if the house – _mansion_ wasn't already a dead giveaway).

 

She snaps at attention when the woman coughs behind a hand, not hiding how she's giving her a once-over.

 

It makes Wendy fidget under her scrutiny.

 

She really, _really,_ hopes this beautiful lady with a smile for a secret doesn't remember her face having planted into cold concrete.

 

"So, _you're_ the one who was lying on the sidewalk."

 

Oops, too late.

 

"Call me Joy. Your employer. You must be the one who emailed earlier,"

 

Her eyes widen as soon as the words leave the older woman's mouth, immediately bowing out of courtesy, recalling the short conversation she's had with her over in short sentences of black and white.

 

"Oh! Yup, that was me! I'm Wendy,"

 

She snaps back up to offer a hand, eager to shake Joy's for a proper greeting only to stumble forward in haste at the woman's clicking tongue.

 

"Get in already or else I'll be letting flies live with me too and that's not something I’m willing to pay for at all.”

 

Wendy's spewing muttered apologies even when the door closes shut and Joy is already walking off.

 

Despite the woman’s snappy mouth and sharp tongue, Wendy doesn’t feel discouraged; she’s glad she gets to live under the same roof as her muse; the words are already itching to flow through her fingers and be written on blank paper.

 

Joy’s hand is darting in all sorts of directions, voice filled with a certain edge.

 

"The kitchen is down to the left, the living room just across from the dining room on your right, and that..." Wendy's blinking pictures to memorize through her eyes, attempting to keep pace as Joy points down a long hallway. "...over there, is my room."

 

Wendy nods along, scrambling to yank her notebook out, taking notes as she scans the rest of the mansion.

 

She gestures towards the back.

 

"What are all those other doors for?"

 

Joy crosses her arms.

 

"Just extra rooms of everything I just told you."

 

It takes two seconds for Wendy’s brain to process what she has just said, eyes widening in fractions that she barely misses the woman’s lips curling into a smirk.

 

"...You mean there's _another_ kitchen and _another—_ "

 

Wendy can’t hide her fascination and wonder, feeling her jaw slacken again.

 

"And another, and another, and _another._ "

 

Joy is swishing her hand in a circle, as if mocking her to play the words on repeat. It makes silence take Wendy's lips, well aware of the amusement plastering Joy's mirthful eyes. She'd rather not let the smirk on Joy's mouth stay any longer than necessary.

 

Though she admits it’s quite fitting on her pale and sharp features – her red lips a savory contrast to her medium length hair, ebony like silk.

 

It even _shines._

 

"...Gotcha."

 

Wendy mutters beneath her breath, a quick solution to ease the mischief off the taller girl's lips.

 

"Yup."

 

The word pops from Joy's mouth, echoing against the walls of ivory curtains and marble canisters.

 

Wendy's not sure where to start; she honestly feels like the silence hanging over their shoulders is gradually curling around her neck, attempting to make her choke.

 

Joy doesn't look particularly friendly and even appears to barely tolerate her presence.

 

She figures getting down to business could alleviate the awkwardness between them.

 

"…So, um, where's my client? The one who I'll be 'friends' with,"

 

Wendy air quotes, not quite sure how else to put it, feeling bashful when Joy's eyes swivel back to her.

 

"You're talking to her."

 

Oh.

 

Oh.

 

_Oh._

 

"Close your mouth." Joy starts but pauses, snapping her fingers like a light bulb had just turned on in her head. "Actually on second thought, keep it open for the flies."

 

Wendy wonders if she'll be able to do her job right.

 

This is going to be _hard._

 

-

 

When she has settled all of her things in her designated room, Wendy lies on the mattress that she'll now have to call her home.

 

Her bed is littered with hanging drapes of ivory silk that Wendy's only ever seen in movies, arches of gold linings flitting through the material, curving in elegant circles and slopes that it gives her a headache for even imagining how much it'd cost just to have it as a decoration.

 

She couldn’t even afford a _taxi._

 

Joy has given her one full day of rest before she has to play as her 'friend'.

 

Wendy doesn't necessarily mind. She's gotten used to faking friendships through high school, finding a few precious genuine gems she's managed to keep until they've moved on to bigger things in bigger cities.

 

But she hopes that her employer – and current muse, will be someone she can truly call a ‘friend’ too.

 

Someday.

 

Grabbing her notebook from her bed stand, Wendy flutters through the pages of her heart, stares at the poetry she's made on inspired whims from autumn leaves to winter snowflakes.

 

Flipping worn-out corners to crisp edges and a blank canvas, Wendy begins scribbling the first words that come to mind when she thinks of Joy.

 

_Sharp and jagged, like broken glass, but…_

 

-

 

Joy has never been one for pointless banter.

 

Much like her preferred shade of red lipstick, more reddish than the hue on Wendy’s cheeks when she first opened the door to her house, all flustered with a hanging mouth, Joy would rather be clear and to the point.

 

Not fumbling around with a twisted tongue like its been knotted with a shoelace yet still working on overdrive.

 

“Oh! I got my recipe book with me – would you like me to make you something? Muffins? Cake? _Pie?_ Or how about a _giant_ scoop of—“

 

“I hired a Cook for a reason.” Joy deadpans behind her laptop, typing up an email for her secretary for tomorrow’s scheduled meeting. “You’re just here to be my… _’friend’._ ”

 

She enunciates the word in particular, still trying to adjust to the term associated with a stranger (whom she hired, Joy grumbled inwardly) who’s practically loitering about in her kitchen.

 

Wendy is pouting at her and Joy makes sure her eyes remain purposely attached to the screen in front of her.

 

“A friend can also make dinner,”

 

“But you don’t actually start working until tomorrow, _remember?_ ”

 

Joy remarks, her fingers clacking away on her keyboard, her peripheral picking up on Wendy resting her face in her hands, slumping over the kitchen counter.

 

“But I like cooking…”

 

Joy rolls her eyes, glancing at the clock on the top right corner of her screen, 7:26PM. Their food will be served soon; just four minutes left.

 

“Then cook tomorrow. You’re going to waste the Chef’s efforts.”

 

Wendy suddenly stiffens, her back straightening up.

 

“O-Oh, right. Sorry…”

 

Joy glances past the rim of her laptop to see Wendy nervously fidget in her seat, fiddling with the hem of her sleeves. Joy didn’t think her client would be this squirmy, considering being a ‘friend’ required taking initiative and bearing confidence.

 

Her nervousness is annoying to look at.

 

Why is she even fidgeting?

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Joy doesn’t miss the way Wendy jumps in her chair, like she had just been struck with electricity and was forced to answer (though Joy admits it was partially true), cradling her hands like it would help still her limbs from stuttering.

 

“Well, I – um, was just thinking about how inconsiderate I was – for forgetting that the Cook was already making supper.”

 

Joy feels her brows crinkle, and from the hurried look on Wendy’s face, the shorter woman takes it as a sign to continue.

 

Her fingers have paused above the keyboard.

 

“I never really had company before. I’ve just been on my own, and…”

 

Wendy looks down, picking at the edges of her hands.

 

Joy wonders how this woman could bounce from bubbly annoyance to wistfully solemn in a matter of a few sentences; how Wendy could carry the atmosphere into a shape that steals her attention so firmly – and with a nervous wreck of a voice.

 

“…I’ve just been so used to cooking for myself that I got a little excited at the thought of cooking for someone else, too.”

 

Perhaps she’s overthinking, Joy considers mutely, but it almost sounds like Wendy is about to say sorry for that – like she’s about to apologize for the happiness at the thought of sharing a meal with another person.

 

And it bothers her.

 

Joy wonders if she’ll regret the words that play at the tip of her tongue, already spilling past her lips for a stranger’s ears to catch and hear.

 

She darts her eyes away from Wendy, making sure they remain glued on her screen for the rest of the evening, once the syllables come out – dirtying the air and Joy can’t take them back anymore.

 

“I hope you’re not about to apologize for thinking like that.”

 

When Wendy keeps silent, her nervous jitters having come to a pause – almost like her body had limited its energy so her brain could process what she has just said, it makes Joy’s head rattle for an escape – anything to get rid of the looming quiet that doesn’t seem to want to go away.

 

Joy scowls when her eyes shift back, annoyed at the growing smile on Wendy’s lips – like she had just caught her in the act of being _kind_.

 

Ridiculous.

 

“Apologize to the Chef when he’s done.”


End file.
